


Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Friendship, Gen, McLennon (implied), Overused Trope Alert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: In which I visit Overused Trope Land with a story about Hurricane Dora/"The Night We Cried." The title is from a set of seven Pavanes by John Dowland, and roughly translated it means "Old Tears, Renewed."





	Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

 

Key West, Florida  
September 10, 1964

***

Once the jam session ended, there wasn't anything else to do but drink.

"Thank you, Dora," said George as he poured scotch for Paul and himself into plastic cups before passing the bottle to John. "We needed a night to ourselves."

John decanted a liberal amount for himself, then splashed some into the cup in Ringo's outstretched hand. "Let's drink to her." The four men raised their makeshift glasses and said in unison, "Here's to Hurricane Dora."

"And a good night's sleep," Paul added. His voice was creaky with overuse and the beginning of a cold.

"Not sure how much sleep we'll be getting tonight, crammed in here like sardines," Ringo sighed. "A man needs to stretch out, you know."

Because of the emergency surrounding the approaching hurricane, the band had been able to secure only one room, with two tight double beds and a tiny bathroom. Brian and the crew had to stay in an even smaller and less comfortable motel down the road. 

"We've slept in worse situations than this one," John reminded everyone when their faces began to reflect annoyance. "No holes in a windscreen and no dirty movies playing in our ears. And we've got a proper bathtub." He nudged Ringo with his elbow and grinned maniacally at him. "A veritable palace, this place."

In reality, it was a barely-respectable motel. John had doubts about how sturdy the building might actually be, but he kept them to himself. With George absolutely exhausted, Ringo apprehensive about the storm, and Paul trying not to come down with something, they were on enough of an edge already.

For himself, John was just glad not to be on the move. Brian had supplied them with snacks, candles, and a shocking amount of liquor, so they were all set for the night. The fact that there was a bed to sleep in instead of an airplane seat sounded just great to John, even if the bed was going to contain an extra Beatle.

Paul sneezed, looking surprised that it was happening to him. "Ugh. Sorry," he sniffed as he rubbed the end of his nose with one of the tissues he held in a tight ball.

George poured more scotch into Paul's glass. "Here, drink some more. Kill the germs."

"Ta." Paul took a long swallow and winced. "It's like gargling with battery acid."

"Good. It's burning the snot out of your throat so you'll be able to sing by tomorrow night," John said lightly even though he was concerned about how rotten Paul was starting to sound.

"If we get to sing tomorrow night." Ringo's words were strained. "If we don't wake up in Oz what with this storm and all."

George, whose rosy cheeks hinted at how tipsy he was becoming, snickered. "Here you were a Hurricane for all these years and it turns out you're scared of 'em!"

Everyone laughed. John looked fondly at George. Rather than being a maudlin drunk like the rest of them, the first few drinks tended to bring George's humorous side bubbling to the surface of his personality. It was always a joy to see the furrows between George's eyebrows lessen, to see a full smile instead of the brief flashes of teeth he gave when he was uptight. 

John took a good, long swallow before setting the cup down on the shaggy brown carpet. "Might as well get comfortable, fellas. I'm gonna change so I'll already be in pyjamas by the time I pass out." Standing up was a bit more of a problem than he'd expected, but he felt Paul steadying him with a strong hand on his leg. The hand was warm, too warm, but John decided to get comfortable now and check on Paul's temperature later.

It wasn't as if any of them would be leaving the room tonight.

They took turns in the little bathroom, changing into pyjamas while the other three plucked or drummed at nothing in particular. By the time they were all back in the bedroom they were well into the third bottle and the storm was raging all around them. Wind and pounding rain rattled the windows. Distant flashes of lightning went off like strobe lights and the accompanying thunderclaps got closer and closer together.

John actually enjoyed a good storm now and again; the rumbling thunder and faint scent of ozone made him drowsy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ringo's frown. "Best have another one," John said as he passed the bottle. "We're in for a long night."

"I was counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder," Ringo said, but he didn't turn down the offer of more scotch. "You can tell how close the storm's getting. At least that's what my mum always said."

Paul cast a quick glance at John. It was a reflex, the way he always checked on John when a mother was mentioned in their presence. More than one interviewer had made the faux pas of asking the two of them about their mothers, and no matter how many times it happened John always felt flat-footed when replying. It upset and annoyed him, but what he really hated was the tiny flash of sadness that always, always crossed Paul's face before he had a chance to hide it from John.

Tonight, between the scotch and the fever, Paul wasn't able to school his features as well as usual. His lips trembled and his wide eyes were suspiciously shiny. He opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to change his mind, and instead slumped against John's shoulder.

"What is it?" John asked quietly, giving Paul a chance to whisper it if he didn't feel secure enough to say it aloud.

Paul shook his head. "It's daft," he murmured.

"That never stops me." Ringo's deadpan delivery and sly smile told John that he was attempting to lighten Paul's mood. John grinned at him, grateful for the attempt.

Paul shifted his head so that he could talk without a mouthful of John's pyjama top. "D'you remember her voice? Julia's?"

"God, what...what?" John stammered. He had to think about it for a moment, had to force himself to return to a time when Julia's silver laughter rang out in delight, when she told John how clever and wonderful he was. "Yeah. It was a nice voice, I remember liking how smooth and cool it was." 

George nodded in agreement. "And she could sing, too. She loved listening to us and singing along just like the kids."

The pain John felt in remembering his mother was acute, even six years later, but when Paul whispered, "I can't remember my mum's voice," John's heart nearly broke for him.

George gently said, "She was a nice lady, your mum," then his face fell. He reached out a slender hand and put it on Paul's knee. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Paul, confused, patted George's hand and shrugged at John. "For what?" he asked.

"For my perfect life," George said in a thick, miserable tone.

Well, George usually wasn't a maudlin drunk. There's a first time for everything, John said to himself.

Paul's eyebrows shot up and he coughed slightly. "Son, I don't have a clue what you're on about."

"You three all had it so rough, and here I was happy with my mum and my dad and my sister and brothers!"

John, who knew exactly how poverty-stricken the Harrisons had been before the Beatles made it big, felt his heart swell that George considered himself so fortunate compared to his friends. "I dunno, George. I mean, Mendips was a pretty swish place to live."

"It was hard losing my mother, but I have my dad and Mike," Paul added.

"My mum and Harry took good care of me every time I got sick," Ringo said after a pause. "We didn't have much, but I never doubted that they loved me."

John was relieved that Ringo had the delicacy not to remind them that he was from an actual slum, because that would have set George off even more.

George nodded. John leaned over and peered into his face. "How much have you had to drink, there, George?"

"Not as much as Paul."

Paul, whose face was ghostly pale, suddenly doubled over with his arms around himself. 

"Uh-oh," Ringo warned, getting to his feet faster than anyone could have thought possible. He grabbed Paul by the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom just in time.

Eager to cover up the sound of vomiting lest it trigger a chain reaction, John grabbed his guitar and started playing noisy chords. George looked woozily at John and frowned. "Aren't you going to go in there?" he asked.

"Nah. Give the lad a bit of privacy." Years and years of sharing rooms with Paul left John certain that Paul would want as few onlookers as possible. Losing control, even due to illness, was something Paul preferred to do in private.

George reached for his own instrument and played a plaintive melody to go with John's chords. Even plastered, George was more than a match for any guitarist John had ever heard. John watched George's fingers pull eloquent tunes out of the guitar. "That's quite good," he said with awe in his voice. 

"Don't you forget it," hiccuped George, whose hands seemed blissfully independent from the fog in his brain.

"I won't." John took a deep breath. Fueled by liquor and genuine admiration, he said, "I can't believe I put off asking you to join the group just because you were a tyke of twelve."

"I was fourteen," protested George. "Almost fifteen."

"But you looked ten. And I was an arrogant sod--" He stopped when George snickered at the word "was," then continued. "And I might never have asked if it hadn't been for Paul's fucking stubbornness."

"I heard that," croaked Paul from the bathroom.

"Your FUCKING STUBBORNNESS, Paul, got us the best lead guitarist in the whole damn world, and I don't care who hears me say it!"

At that interesting point in the night's conversation, a crash of thunder directly overhead was followed by all the lights going out.

Ringo came out of the bathroom, holding his cigarette lighter aloft. "Where'd Brian put the candles, then?"

John scrabbled on the nightstand and came up with a cylinder that he hoped was a candle. "Here, try this."

"Make sure it's a candle and not a condom," Paul called out. 

"I can tell the difference, son, even if you couldn't," John replied as he took Ringo's lighter and put the flame to the wick. The candle sputtered and for a horrible moment John thought it wasn't going to light up, but eventually the flame shone clear and strong.

"What're you going to put it in?" George asked.

John blinked. Surely he wasn't going to have to sit here holding it until the damned thing burned to nothingness.

"Here, let me." Ringo took the candle, tipped it sideways so that some of the wax ran around the lip of an empty scotch bottle, then held the bottom of the candle in the warm wax until it set. He repeated this with two other candles.

George whistled through his teeth. "Impressive, that."

"Now our cheap motel looks like a cheap Italian restaurant," Ringo chuckled. "So much better."

It actually was better. The room was bathed with a warm, golden glow instead of incandescent white electric light. John picked up one of the makeshift candle holders and shuffled into the bathroom to check on Paul.

"Can you see all right, Macca?" he asked. Paul was leaning with his cheek against the rim of the toilet, breathing shallowly.

"Wish I couldn't," was all Paul was able to say before he choked and began vomiting again.

"Easy, Paul, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you," John crooned as he wrapped one arm around Paul's chest and stroked his hair with the other. The contents of the toilet were mostly clear, meaning that Paul was probably near the end of whatever had made him sick. John flushed the toilet then put his hand on Paul's forehead. It was warm but not as bad as before. "That's better," John said. He reached up to the sink and pulled down a tube of toothpaste - probably George's, because it smelled strongly of the peppermint he favored - and squeezed a bit onto Paul's index finger. "Scrub a bit, get the taste out of your mouth."

Silently, Paul complied, then his body went lax and he laid his head in John's lap.

"That's him done for," George said from the doorway. He set his candle on the sink and sat down next to John, putting one hand in Paul's hair and the other on John's shoulder. "If only the world knew what larks it was, being a Beatle."

John chuckled. "We've had better nights."

"And worse ones. Like in Hamburg, where you and Paul and Pete played Olympic scorekeepers while that ginger bird..." George broke off, clearly embarrassed at the memory of losing his virginity while his bandmates cheered him on.

"Oh, I don't know, I quite enjoyed that," John said with a little leer.

George shook his head and leaned against the wall. John's shoulder felt cold without George's touch, and Paul whimpered a little at the loss of the caressing fingers. John took over, absent-mindedly tousling Paul's dark hair.

Ringo entered a few moments later. "Room for one more?"

"Of course," John said, "if you don't mind sitting in the tub."

"I don't, actually." Ringo clambered in and set his candle on the edge of the bathtub. He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. "We only have the three candles, so maybe we should blow two out and save 'em."

John puffed out George's and his own candles, then pulled Paul's head into a more comfortable position on his lap. George's head tipped back and his breathing deepened.

"Guess it's just the two of us still conscious," Ringo whispered.

"I'm conscious," mumbled Paul.

"Me, too." George's voice was barely audible as he relaxed further, nearly hitting his head on the plumbing beneath the sink.

"Hey, Ringo, don't let him tip over," John said.

Ringo held out his hand to George. "C'mere, lad. More room over by me."

George scooted to the edge of the tub and put his head down on the pile of towels. He shifted a couple of times, grumbling wordlessly. Ringo rolled his eyes at John then moved one hand down to George's head, petting him like a puppy. "The youth today just can't hold their liquor," Ringo quipped, but John could hear the affection in his voice.

John cocked his head, listening for the storm but not hearing anything. "I think that's the eye passing over us now," he said. "So it's halfway done."

"Good. I've had about enough of this storm business." Ringo's eyes, silver in the muted candlelight, were focused on John. "Listen, Johnny, did I stick my foot in it, earlier, talking about my mother in front of you and Paul?"

John's throat tightened. "Nah," he said, wanting to mean it, but he could tell that Ringo wasn't fooled.

"Okay, I'll be more careful from now on." Ringo waggled his eyebrows to let John know that he hadn't fallen for his attempt at obfuscation.

Nodding in appreciation, John turned his gaze down to Paul's face. "It's funny, how Paul hears music so perfectly, how he remembers every note after hearing it just once, but he can't remember his mum's voice. I can't imagine forgetting Julia's, but I suppose I will, eventually." His voice felt thick as he continued. "I mean, I don't really remember Uncle George's, and sometimes I'm not even sure I can remember Stuart's, except for the old recordings. And someday they won't play anymore, and then his voice will be gone."

"Steady on," Ringo said, reaching out for John even though they were sitting too far apart to touch. He settled for putting the last remnants of scotch within John's reach.

The hurricane's eye was past them and the storm began anew, lashing the windows with rain and shaking the whole building with wind. John grabbed the bottle and swallowed the last of the amber liquid before he started talking again.

"How can someone you love just...disappear, like that? Like they never existed? Who's gonna be left in ten years, in fifty years, to remember Stuart's voice, to remember him, to remember Julia?"

George raised his head, blinking slowly. John felt George's fingers wrap gently around his wrist as he said, "God will remember, John. He'll remember all of us."

"Is that the same God who gave Stuart a brain aneurism? The same God who put a cop in a car he didn't know how to drive so that he could kill my mother? Why should I trust a God who takes everyone I love away from me?" He knew he was shocking George with his words, George whose childlike faith in higher powers never wavered, but John's heart was throbbing in his chest and the words spilled from his mouth as the hot, stinging tears spilled from his eyes. "Everyone I love leaves me," he cried. "Everyone I love fucking dies, that's why I don't love anyone, why I can't love anyone, because I don't want them to fucking DIE!"

John heard himself sobbing harshly as Paul sat up and threw his arms around him. "Johnny, it's okay, love, it's okay."

"Don't!" John yelled, trying to pull away. The panic that seized him clutched his chest so that he could barely breathe. He started scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Don't you see? If you love me then I'll love you and you'll die, just like the rest of them!"

"You can't stop me from loving you." Paul's voice was still raspy and weak but his embrace remained firm. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Me, neither," chimed Ringo from the bathtub.

"We're none of us leaving you, so you can feel free to love us as much as you want." George's voice was as tearful as John's as he sat behind him and wrapped his arm around John's chest. "You're not getting rid of us that easy, Lennon."

The lights flickered then came back on. All four men winced at the sudden burst of cold fluorescence. George staggered to his feet and batted at the bathroom switch until that light went out. 

The insanity of the situation wasn't lost on John. He was sitting on the floor of a loo in a cheap motel during a thunderstorm, in his pyjamas, with the rest of his band trying to console him while he had a drunken breakdown.

It was actually a good metaphor for their lives, when he stopped to think about it. 

The light coming in from the bedroom was strong enough that he could take a good look at his friends: Ringo, always as unwaveringly steady as his drumbeat, loyal George with his fine mind and extraordinary patience, and Paul, whose brilliance more than compensated for his exasperating perfectionism.

"How'd I get so bleedin' lucky as to end up with the three of you?" John asked as he smiled at each of his bandmates in turn.

"Dunno how lucky you'll feel when you have Typhoid Paulie in your bed," George declared around a yawn. Paul shot him a dirty look but he was fighting back laughter.

"C'mon, up with you." John stood, wincing at the pain in his lower back from sitting on hard tile, and gave Paul a hand up. "What about--"

George silenced him with a finger on his lips. John and Paul looked at Ringo, who had fallen asleep in the bathtub. "I'll get him settled," George whispered. "You two go on, get some sleep."

John walked Paul over to one of the beds and pulled the bedspread back for him. As Paul climbed in and John covered him up, they shared a tiny smile. John could tell from the way Paul's eyes softened that he was thinking about his mother, and if he was thinking about her then he was also remembering Julia and worrying about John.

"Daft lad," John whispered fondly as he started to get in behind Paul. 

Paul stopped John with a hand on his wrist. "If Ringo's gonna sleep in the tub, maybe you should share with George. You don't need my germs."

"Better your germs than George's bony knees." John pried Paul's fingers loose and patted his hand before settling in behind him. "Now, be a good boy and let me have my beauty sleep. Or maybe a beauty coma, that'd do me more good."

Chuckling, Paul burrowed deeper under the covers. 

George padded barefoot through the room to get a blanket and pillow for Ringo. John could see him over Paul's shoulder as he lifted Ringo's head ever so gently to put the pillow beneath it, and then draped the blanket over his sleeping form. George picked up the candle and used it to light his way back to bed once he turned out the bedroom lights. When he got into his bed, he leaned over, mouthed "Good night" to John and Paul, then blew out the candle.

The storm had died down to a lulling fall of heavy rain. Moonlight streamed through the window, a gentle silvery glow that lit up Paul's face when he turned over to look at John.

"Your voice," he whispered. "No one's ever going to forget your voice. Not in fifty years, or a hundred. It's gonna live forever."

"Hush, you'll wake Ringo," John admonished, but he pulled Paul into a fierce hug. He felt Paul begin to relax into sleep, his skin damp with breaking fever. Maybe John would catch his cold but he would not push Paul away. 

Tomorrow night, John thought, when the storm had washed the sky and polished the stars, he'd take Paul outside to look at them together, and perhaps Paul's long-opened wound could begin to heal.

Perhaps John's would as well, and at last their old tears would come to an end.

 

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Actually, I should buy a condo in Overused Trope Land. *g*


End file.
